


Maddening Love

by Natterina



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Eventual Romance, F/F, Justice for Eurvicscire, Light Angst, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Unrequited Love, they are soft for each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27702632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natterina/pseuds/Natterina
Summary: Randvi looks at the smirk on Eivor’s lips, the confidence in the line of her shoulders, and it hits her with all the force of being kicked in the chest.She married the wrong one.
Relationships: Eivor/Randvi (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 474





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In two parts, because I haven't actually finished the game yet!

For all that the strength of her feelings are beyond anything she has felt before, for all that she has spent weeks now struggling to lift her eyes to meet Eivor’s, the moment that it truly hits her gives her such a shock that it nigh on makes her breathless.

It is not even a tale-worthy moment, no surge of lust in the midst of a battle, blood running hot through her veins as she takes in the sight of Eivor cleaving through men like warm butter. It may be a moment that will be seared into her eyelids for the rest of her days, but it is not something she can craft into a tale for the little ones.

No, the moment comes in the longhouse, the chatter from those milling around inside long ceased to the early morning hours, the only source of light coming from the low burning candles. It comes when Eivor breaks from glaring down at the map, brows furrowed and her chapped lower lip tugged between her teeth, her long fingers balancing the dagger on the table by its point.

Randvi takes in the sight, using the rare opportunity to really _look_ at this woman who never seems to stop, who Randvi doesn’t think she’s ever seen _once_ in three years return home without scrapes and bruises and nearly-broken bones. She had been jealous for a time, her marriage to Sigurd taking all such similar opportunities away from her, but she had held no ill will towards the infuriating woman. How could she, when Eivor would sneak into _her_ rooms first rather than face the wrath of Styrbjorn, an unrepentant smirk on her face and wounds that needed wrapping?

And yet it is only here in England, so close to Eivor that she can see the reflection of the candles dancing on the silver of her braid beads, that it really hits her. Sigurd has long gone, barely warming her bed before leaving on his quest for glory once more, but Eivor stands before her even though Randvi has not met her gaze for some time. The warrior smirks, lifts bright eyes to meet Randvi’s as she drives the dagger down into the map over Grantebridgescire.

Randvi looks at the smirk on Eivor’s lips, the confidence in the line of her shoulders, the figure she cuts as she nods sternly and turns to leave, and it hits her with all the force of being kicked in the chest.

_I married the wrong one._

* * *

Eivor returns from Grantebridgescire soaking wet from a long night on the longboat, a furious Dag and - to Randvi’s bewilderment - the white wolf from the farmhouse on her heels.

She lets them argue it out, understanding that it is not her place to pick a side between her husband’s sister and a man who claims to only be arguing for her husband’s honour. Randvi gives her ten minutes to cool off, but the short distance to Eivor’s room feels like an age now that the weight of _feelings_ has settled like a boulder into her stomach.

To Randvi’s absolute surprise, Eivor is bent on the floor in front of the wolf, her hands sunk deep into the thick fur as she holds her face and scratches hard behind her ears. The wolf looks almost blissful, as though her muzzle isn’t stained red with human blood and gore, which only makes it worse when her tongue flicks out to try to lick a bloodstain from Eivor’s cheek.

Randvi clears her throat, earning only a glance in return. There is something distant in Eivor’s eyes, her mind clearly on something far from the longhouse.

“I was not aware this is what they meant when they called you _Wolf-Kissed_.”

Miraculously it earns a sharp bark of a laugh, Eivor’s teeth showing in a grin that is almost feral.

“It is not as glorious a tale to tell, if others knew I had a wolf sleeping at the base of my bed.”

She stands then, pointedly watching as the wolf curls up on the rug as though it is a pet _dog_ , not the grisly killer it has the potential to be. Randvi tries not to laugh but fails at anything weaker than an indulgent smile, as Eivor roots through her satchel for the arm-ring gifted to her by Jarlskona Soma.

There is something wistful in Eivor’s eyes as she regales Randvi with the tales of her work in Grantebridge, of the mutual trust that had rose up quickly between herself and Soma and which had allowed them to take Grantebridge back within weeks of its taking. It makes the weight in her stomach curl and ache with jealousy, a bitter burn in her chest, and Randvi knows instinctively the moment her brows settle back into that common furrow, the way her lips twist downwards once again. Eivor does not notice, leaning against the wooden post as she is.

Randvi desperately tells herself that perhaps these feelings are because she misses Sigurd, that her sudden _addiction_ to Eivor is because her bed is cold and lonely and has been for years.

But she doesn’t miss her husband, barely knows him at all, and she cannot find her bed cold and lonely when it has never been warm to begin with.

* * *

It becomes _maddening_.

Eivor returns from her latest venture with a young man in tow, barely old enough to be considered a man. He finds it hard to be comfortable around them: Randvi watches as Ceolbert clamps down on cringing away from the members of their clan, the loud shouts and the heavy pats on his back during the welcome feast they hold for him. She sees every flinch as Eivor’s voice rises in pitch with every tankard of mead, and she feels a little sorry for this soft-spoken lad.

He does not fear them, no, she can see the respect he holds for Eivor and the tentative friendliness as he tries to speak to the men and women around him. But he has been dropped into the centre of a loud and rowdy clan and it is _clearly_ something he has never experienced before.

The night winds down almost as quickly as it begins. Those still able to walk leave the longhouse for their homes, leaving a dimmed hall full of the stink of leftover beer and meat, and the warm bodies of those who drank themselves into stupors. Bragi is the loudest of them, one table back and snoring so loudly the tables vibrate.

Ceolbert relaxes a little, his arms no longer so close to his sides but folded loosely on the table in front of him, as he and Randvi quietly discuss their plans for the next day. It’s a given that she’ll show him around and introduce him to everyone that he did not get a chance to meet tonight, but her words trail off when she realises that there is a warm weight pressed against her, and Eivor has not spoken for some time.

She turns her head only slightly, to find that Eivor has slumped down against her, her head and half her face pressed into the fur of Randvi’s cloak on her upper arm. She’s twisted at an uncomfortable angle, one arm still resting on the table with her fingers loosely wrapped through the handle of her tankard, as though she began to drift off halfway through a swig. She stinks of beer and wet fur, her own cloak still damp from the hard ride home from Repton. But Eivor herself is warm, her lips twitching in her drunken slumber, and it makes something gentle settle deep behind Randvi’s ribcage.

Randvi has never been a tactile person, not as Eivor has been with reassuring touches to the elbow or the arm, has never stood shoulder to shoulder with the other woman willingly unless Eivor herself has positioned herself to do it. But _this_ , the simple intimacy of being a shoulder to lean on makes her want to lift her hand and curl the long hair at the nape of Eivor’s neck around her fingers, and the urge to gently trace her fingertips along the exposed column of her throat is so powerful that Randvi has to turn her head away.

She tells herself that she only misses Sigurd, but no matter how she repeats the lie it tastes like ash on her tongue. She _does_ love her husband, but not once has she had the urge to run her fingers through _his_ hair, not even in the heat of sex or the quiet conversation that rarely followed, on the even rarer nights that he stayed in their bed during the early days of their marriage. Lust for Eivor is something she can deal with, but affection, willing intimacy, these she does not know what to do with.

Ceolbert makes a movement opposite her, and Randvi remembers that she is not alone at this table. She keeps her expression stoic, but Ceolbert’s gaze is on her unconscious companion. There is respect in his eyes, and perhaps a little something of hero-worship, and when he looks up at Randvi he gives a hesitant smile.

“It is strange, to see someone so utterly terrifying looking so calm. She hardly looks like the same woman I watched cut through swathes of men without so much as a flinch.”

“She is singular.” Randvi agrees, not fearing that her statement could be misconstrued - it is mere observation to acknowledge the storm that Eivor is in battle, compared to the calm and steady presence she can be when she so chooses. She is a knot of contradictions and wonderful things that Randvi wants to unravel, but as the heavy warmth at her side grows so does the thought that doing so is not a privilege that belongs to her.

Time to wake her up, before Ranvdi’s thoughts travel into more unwelcome areas.

Carefully, Randvi shrugs her shoulder enough to rouse the sleeping blonde. The fingers around the tankard tighten imperceptibly half a second before Eivor opens her eyes, instinctively looking for any threat, and Randvi feels every line of Eivor’s body that is pressed against her tighten immediately. She relaxes a moment later, eyes alert but weary as she looks between Randvi and Ceolbert.

That clear gaze softens as Randvi tells her it is time they all returned to their chambers, and _those_ are the moments that are so infuriating. There is no such soft smile tugging at her lips when Ceolbert bids them goodnight, no curious cocking of her head when _he_ gets up from the table and leaves. But they fall into step immediately when they stand from the table, Eivor’s attention fully on her even if her eyes are not.

Randvi makes sure the maddening woman at least makes it to her bed, which is a task that is absolutely unnecessary seeing as Eivor has gone _into battle_ drunker than this, but it is more for her satisfaction rather than for quelling any worry about the woman.

It is easy to think, leaning against the entryway, of how this could end if she were just another member of the clan. It would be so _easy_ to fall into that bed behind Eivor, to peel off the furs and the leather and take in _all_ of her, to kiss her way down along the scar she _knows_ runs across her breastbone without a shred of guilt in her stomach. There would be no return to an empty bed, no spending her nights trying not to think about the woman sleeping down the hall, the firebrand that she _lov-_

No. Randvi cuts the thought off before it can finish, turning away and heading down towards her own chambers. She ignores how cold her own furs are when she crawls into them, ignores the half-moon imprints in her palms from her clenched fists, ignores that the surest path to happiness that she sees is lying _down the hall_ in an equally cold bed.

Again, Randvi thinks, she married the _wrong one_.

* * *

The evening before Eivor returns from East Anglia, a new king and an ally firmly secured in her grip, Randvi makes the outrageous not-quite-mistake of angrily scribbling down her frustrations at standing opposite Eivor at the alliance table and having to deal with these _feelings_.

It is an accident in that Randvi writes it all down when she cannot bear to think of the next day, when Eivor will return with her stoic face that turns gentle when she steps into the room and sees her. She cannot bring herself to think of how Eivor will stand there opposite her idly twirling the dagger through her fingers, calm and unruffled and completely unaware of how Randvi feels like she is _falling apart_ with guilt and uncertainty. It is one thing to think herself in love with the woman when there is no chance of that being returned, but it is hard to ignore how Eivor’s easy affection is _too_ easy with Randvi. Eivor’s gaze only softens when it falls on Randvi; it doesn’t even change when she looks at Petra, even after their ridiculous drugged-up afternoon in the woods that resulted in the two women becoming close friends. So she writes down her frustrations.

Randvi _cannot_ bear it. She is _sick_ of being trapped in this longhouse, rarely able to leave and unable to actually find someone to leave _with_ since most are still a little wary of overstepping when it comes to their Jarl’s wife. You can’t brag about the four barrels of mead you stole and got pissed off in the woods to the woman who runs the place, after all.

It is therefore _not_ an accident that the note is left out overnight on the desk next to the alliance table. It is sheer idiocy, that Randvi will not lie about, but it’s hardly an accident.

Randvi keeps her eyes carefully on the map when Eivor walks in and heads straight for the desk _as always_ , an apple in her hand and crunching it loudly. The chewing itself is irritating enough that Randvi doesn’t look suspiciously calm at the table, and she hid the note well enough that it doesn’t look like it has been left out on purpose. The knowledge is there for the taking, and at least if Eivor _knows_ then Randvi can get a better grasp of how she feels.

She knows the moment Eivor reads the scribbles, as a chunk of the apple is loudly bitten off and then suddenly the crunching slows to a halt. That alone is a relief, though Randvi will admit she is feeling particularly ready to snap today.

“Randvi?”

She turns at the sound of her name, not failing to miss how Eivor _almost_ stutters on the word. The piece of parchment is nowhere to be seen, and Eivor’s brows are furrowed even as she looks on the cusp of saying something. There is an indecision in her eyes as they flicker between her and the map.

“Yes, Eivor?”

The other woman swallows, Randvi’s eyes fixated on the bobbing of her throat, and the world feels oddly silent. It feels like the two of them are standing on opposite edges of a ravine, neither one quite with the nerve to leap.

And then, it passes.

“Shall we discuss the alliances?”

If there is doubt or disappointment in Randvi’s heart she does not show it, and it plagues her for the whole of their discussion. She barely notices how Eivor’s breathing is stilted, too carefully controlled to hide the breathlessness in her chest, fails to notice the light pink blush dusting across her cheekbones. The doubt plagues her even when Eivor insists on taking her to Grantebridge when they’ve finished their talk.

Eivor’s smile is gentle, her eyes calm, but Randvi dare not hope.

* * *

For Eivor, there is no slow descent into feelings for Randvi, no moment where she stands on the precipice and wonders if she should jump over or back. There is no occasion where she locks eyes with Randvi and everything links into place, nor is there a time where she misses the other’s woman’s presence and suddenly realises why.

No, Eivor is in the middle before she knows it has begun, and it starts on the day Randvi arrives at their village to marry Sigurd.

Randvi arrives with an axe on her back and fading sunburn on her cheeks, hair in braids elaborate enough to hide the fact that it is dry from sea salt and too many days raiding on a longship. She arrives with lips and hands too chapped for a woman who has spent the last year indoors, and her eyes are sharp as she steps onto Fornburg’s docks. Eivor, who until that point has barely spared anyone on the boat a second glance, absolutely cannot tear her eyes away from the woman who holds her head high and proud.

In that moment, she thinks of praying to every god she can name that this beauty is _not_ the one bound for her brother.

But it is not to be, and Eivor leaves shortly after the wedding on an excursion of her own. When she returns, Sigurd is already gone on his journey to the east. Eivor expects that Randvi will have gone with him, and is admittedly surprised to find otherwise when she returns to Fornburg.

The woman remains stoic, but is friendlier than she had been on her wedding day. Eivor makes the effort to keep her company when she is in the village, partly out of an inexplicable desire to be near her and partly because she thinks it is something Sigurd would like her to do. It is not easy to join another clan and then be left alone, and Eivor aims to at least be a true friend when time permits.

More than two years pass, as Randvi’s skin loses the freckles and the suntan, as the scars on her hands begin to fade and then disappear completely. Her hair softens, no longer battered by salty sea air, and Eivor tries very hard to not notice how her lips have done the same, soft and pink and-

No. Eivor takes all thoughts and locks them away, unwilling to risk her relationship with Sigurd, unable to risk _Randvi’s_ relationship with him. It is not her business and not her place to notice that Randvi’s bed grows ever colder, nor is it on her to comment when Sigurd finally returns and Randvi looks about as enthusiastic as a man condemned to the blood eagle.

Even in England, Eivor bites her tongue when Sigurd runs off again, leaving Randvi behind to look after a band of people who barely have _tents_ to live in. Again, she helps where she can, but she is wary of overstepping and spends little time in Ravensthorpe.

And then somewhere in the middle of it all, she notices Randvi withdrawing, becomes more aware of the long and contemplative looks being sent her way by the darker-haired woman. Eivor only tests the waters, grants more smiles than she is comfortable giving and finds excuses to be nearby when she _is_ in Ravensthorpe. Her love for the woman has long been tamed and it is easily hidden, beating warmly behind her chest.

And despite it all, despite the feelings she has and the closeness of her relationship to Randvi, it still shocks her down to the bone when she finds the slip of parchment on Randvi’s desk, hastily hidden but not very well. Eivor almost ignores it, if not for the way her eye catches on her name written clearly, and she nearly chokes on her apple when she reads it. It takes every ounce of willpower in her body to force the heat from her cheeks and to refrain from marching over to the table to demand an explanation.

But no, rather than ask for clarity, rather than stand and think about _why_ there is a panic surging in her gut at this safe and unviable love suddenly becoming real as a thousand possibilities open before her, Eivor instead decides to ask Randvi if she’d like a day out in Grantebridge, because apparently she has a masochistic streak as long as the River Ouse.

The hesitant acceptance sends off more alarm than even the note, if only because an easy _yes_ would mean there is not something about the two of them going off on their own that has a cause for fear.

But there is, because Eivor sees a side to Randvi in Grantebridge that she has not seen in years, and realises that she was a fool to ever think of that flame in her chest as tamed and harmless.

Eivor sees the kiss coming before Randvi even moves, the two of them already standing so close on top of the tower. She can feel the heat from Randvi’s body even with her armour on,and the warmth of her breath flutters across Eivor’s collarbones even before Randvi leans closer. They pause for half a moment, as the world falls utterly silent and all Eivor can focus on in is the feel of Randvi’s nose against her own, her breath hot on her lips, before the gap is closed and Eivor can’t remember who it is who does so.

The moment those warm lips meet her own, all Eivor wants to do is push her back and press her into the wall, every line of their body pressed together, wants to tilt her head back and kiss her deeply enough to bruise her lips. It takes all her strength not to pull her gauntlets off and reach out under Randvi’s tunic and start exploring, as one of her hands settles gently on Randvi’s jaw.

It prompts a jump and an immediate step back from Randvi, who immediately pulls both hands back from where they have settled on Eivor’s chest. They stare at each other for a moment, surprise on both their faces. Neither speaks, before both try to speak over the other.

“What was that?”

“I am sorry.”

Another pause, and Eivor reaches out to fold Randvi’s wringing hands between her own.

“You do not need to apologise.” And she doesn’t, because Eivor had hardly simply stood there and let Randvi kiss her. She’s not even sure who made that last movement.

“I have put you in a very difficult position.”

And she is not wrong, if only because Eivor now stands stuck between betraying her brother’s trust and sleeping with his _wife_ , or following the pounding in her chest to the only arms she _really_ wants to fall into, has _ever_ wanted to fall into. If the position is difficult, it is not for the reason Randvi likely imagines.

But she also _is_ wrong, because for all his faults Sigurd may as well have hung the moon and the stars in her eyes, and Eivor may love this woman with all the fibres in her being but she will _not_ do this to Sigurd, will not lay in his bed and bed his wife whilst he waits for her in Oxenefordscire.

“You have not.” Eivor says, if only for reassurance. “But as much as I would like to take this further, we cannot. You and I both know that now is not the time for us to do this.” Because it is not, because Randvi needs to sort out her marriage before she seeks another, even if that means ending her marriage, and Eivor absolutely needs time to think about the fact that this woman actually _can_ be hers if only the rest of their obstacles are removed.

They agree to forget for the moment, and they spend the evening reminiscing about Norway and their families, the strangeness of this green and warm country scattered with ruins of peoples who are long gone.

Eivor dozes off as the evening sun lingers low and long in the sky, and swears that she feels the ghost of fingers running gently through her hair. When the sun returns in the morning there is not a soul in sight, as Eivor wakes to Synin’s gurgling croak from atop the crumbling wall.

She wishes that she could say that she is surprised to wake alone, but she is not.


	2. Chapter 2

Eivor does not return to Ravensthorpe for long after she wakes, instead taking the longboat almost as soon as she has replaced her paltry rations and heading off in the direction of Essexe. She does not stop in to see Randvi, knowing that perhaps the both of them need a little time and separation, and she had told Randvi of her plans to head to Essexe _before_ they’d gone to Grantebridge.

Still, the decision gives her a little guilt, and she feels rather like a spurned lover sneaking off in the night, never mind that _she_ was the one doing the spurning.

She stops at Elmenham on the way down, wanting to check in on Oswald and Valdis before she crosses the border to Essexe. The decorations from the wedding have long been taken down, but the new king and queen are happy to host her for the evening.

They make a surprising couple to her, the warrior Valdis with the gentle and kind-hearted Oswald, but by no means does she disapprove. His mercy and his ideals may earn him a dagger in the back sooner rather than later if it were any other kingdom, but Valdis appears genuinely happy with him, and her love and her training will keep him safe enough. There is a gentle affection between them now that the overbearing presence of her brothers is gone, and although Eivor is unlikely to ever admit it, the sight of the two of them does make her smile.

“Pretty pair, aren’t they?” Fennr elbows her in the side as he speaks, causing mead from his tankard to slosh over her leggings. “You may not believe it, but _she_ is almost as besotted as he is.”

Eivor snorts, taking a swig of her beer and pausing to wipe at her mouth before she responds.

“That was obvious from the beginning.”

“You think?”

She nods, a quiet hum leaving her throat as she casts her eyes away from the couple in question to glance down at her tankard. “Valdis would not have married Oswald had she not wanted it, not even for an alliance.”

Fennr raises his brows opposite her, agreeing with her point but pondering how he managed to miss it, convinced as he had been that the alliance was not going to go ahead.

Unbidden, Eivor’s mind wanders back to Ravensthorpe, and for the first time in her life the thought of home brings with it an inexplicable melancholy. Perhaps it would not be so, if she knew that on her return she would find a Randvi and Sigurd acting in much the same way as Valdis and Oswald, a couple happy in their marriage. It was easier to love Randvi and be happy believing that she was content in her own match, but to know otherwise brings with it a certain bitterness at the unfairness of it all.

Eivor knows she will only break one heart by allowing an affair to start, rather than the two that slowly break whilst they wallow in separate bedrooms, and if the betrayal was of anyone other than Sigurd…

But it _is_ Sigurd, and dwelling will only hurt more. Rather than think too much on it, Eivor calls for more beer, and hopes that by the end of the night the alcohol will have obliterated it all.

* * *

Eivor returns from Sciropescire with a jaw that aches terribly from the force of her clenched teeth, fury grinding them down with every row down the river back to Ravensthorpe. Her whole face aches and her head pounds from it, but she cannot relax lest the anger in her heart give way to something else.

It takes twenty minutes for her to get from the docks to the longhouse, and when she does she is sporting a bloody nose and knuckles as she works out fresh pain from her jaw.

Randvi spots her immediately, even in the early morning light. She has been sitting at one of the long tables since the early hours, turning over the single letter she had received from Eivor only hours earlier. Short, curt, but with very little explanation. All Randvi could tell was that Eivor had clearly been furious when she penned the note, with several ink blots and points where the quill had gone through the parchment.

So when Eivor storms in, her whole body tense with one hand pressed tightly against her face, Randvi abruptly stands from her seat in alarm because the woman is _dripping_ blood all over the floor.

“Eivor!”

The warrior tries to wave her off with her free hand, but Randvi manages to force her down onto a seat at the nearest table.

“Just a brawl.” Eivor tries again to wave her away as she speaks, but her words are muffled and Randvi leans down the table to grab a cloth that sits on it. She can’t help but tut as she pulls Eivor’s hand away from her face to reveal the cause is her nose, bleeding heavily enough that the woman must feel some dizziness from it. Randvi folds the cloth into Eivor’s hand, gently curling her fingers around it and pushing it back towards her face. Eivor obeys her unspoken command, tilting her head forward and trying to stem the blood flow.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, until the dizziness fades from Eivor’s skull and Randvi feels she can safely express her disappointed frown without Eivor choking on her own blood. Before the words are out of her mouth, however, Eivor beats her to it.

“You should see the other _bacraut_.” There is a terrible smirk hidden somewhere behind the crumpled up piece of cloth, but Randvi can’t see beyond the bruise that is beginning to fan out across Eivor’s face.

“Ivar Ragnarsson did this to you?” Randvi asks without thinking before she realises it’s a stupid question, that Eivor hasn’t sailed all the way back to Ravensthorpe with a broken nose. Someone from their clan then?

Eivor mumbles something into the cloth as she leans forward, trying to keep her head high but also trying to stop the blood dripping down the back of her throat.

“ _Eivor_.” Randvi doesn’t mean for it to come out as a rebuke, but Eivor’s eyebrows furrow nevertheless at the tone.

There is quiet again before Eivor sighs, the sound muffled.

“Dag.”

For the briefest of moments, Randvi considers rebuking her for fighting with the men she is supposed to be working with, for apparently inflicting worse on Dag than he has on her. She considers it, as a friend and as someone who loves this infuriating woman, but she takes note of how Eivor’s shoulders are still tense with an anger that thrums beneath her skin.

Dag has been irritating, disrespectful to the point of subordination, so intent on defending Sigurd’s honour that he fails to see Eivor’s actions as anything other than a wish for self-glory, rather than the simple act of following Sigurd’s orders. Each argument has whittled at Eivor’s patience and her stubborn pride, but there is something else there tonight that has made this worse, caused her to bubble over and lose her tightly-held control. If anything, Randvi is perhaps only grateful that it was a brawl rather than a full on fight with weapons.

But Eivor is still tense, her knuckles white where they hold the cloth to her face, and though her eyes are on the floor there is a fury in the way her brows furrow, a sadness in the tense slump of her shoulders.

“Who won?”

The question is so surprising to Eivor that she cannot control the harsh puff of laughter that works its way up her throat, spraying droplets of bloody saliva across her arm and the table. Randvi tries not to cringe away, having only asked in the hope that the shock of the question would lift her spirits. It works, though Eivor adopts a disgruntled look on her face.

“I am insulted that you are even asking that.”

Randvi’s smile is small, easily missed by Eivor as she stands from the bench and takes the blonde woman’s upper arm in her hand.

“Come, you need to clean up.”

Eivor follows without a struggle, as Randvi leads her towards her bedroom, where the wolf sits patiently on the rug. Randvi takes the wet cloth from the washbasin, cleaned and refilled earlier in the day in anticipation of Eivor’s return, and folds it in half before she lays it against the darkening patch of skin along her cheekbones. The air is cool enough that the sensation brings relief to Eivor, who relinquishes the other bloody rag from her hand when Randvi pries her fingers open.

“What happened in Sciropescire? Your letter spoke of ill tidings, but you did not give me much information.”

Eivor is quiet for a few moments, head tilted back as her fingers press gingerly at the strip of cool fabric on her face. When it has warmed from her skin she pinches it and gently uses it to wipe off the blood that is crusting at her nostrils. Randvi watches her carefully, trying not to hover but wanting to reach out and help her

“Ceolbert is dead.” The words are blunt, but they are spoken with a pain that indicates Eivor has been repeating this sentence in her brain the whole journey home, as though the circumstances of his death bring with them a righteous fury that has every tendon in Eivor’s neck visible through the tension in her body.

The news is surprising, if only because Eivor’s letter had simply stated they had gained an alliance at a cost. Randvi had grown fond of the young Anglo-Saxon during his time at Ravensthorpe, with his level headed nature and his open minded view of the world. What future has been lost with the dimming of his life?

Still, there must be more, for Eivor’s anger speaks of more than simply a death in battle, and she had mentioned a disagreement with Ivarr. Randvi stays quiet, waiting for Eivor to continue. It takes a few moments, as Eivor sits there tense as a bow string but with her eyes closed against the pain in her face.

“Ivarr Ragnarsson murdered Ceolbert to frame Rhodri, knowing we would be forced to act. I killed him when he confessed it to me after Rhodri was dead.” The words are matter of fact, but these events have hit Eivor hard. It is even more surprising to Randvi, who had gathered enough information to know that Ivarr the Boneless had considered Ceolbert almost like a son. To drive the knife of betrayal home, it seems too much to believe even for someone as sadistic as Ivarr.

Randvi wonders if he had been telling Eivor the truth at all, or if Ivarr had simply seen the opportunity to die quickly at her hand. It must show on her face, for Eivor snorts derisively.

“I know what you’re thinking. I thought of it too, enough to give that bastard his axe in the end, whether he deserved it or not.” The guilt of that must weigh on her, Randvi thinks, the decision to give him his axe on the small chance that he was lying. She cannot guarantee she would not have kicked it into a river, had it been her faced with a dying Ivarr Ragnarsson.

“This has affected you greatly.” Randvi observes quietly, dropping the almost-forgotten piece of cloth into Eivor’s basin.

“He was a _boy,_ Randvi. He lived with us for months, but although you trained him well he still was not a man. To be betrayed in such a cruel way, he did not deserve it.” The sigh that leaves Eivor’s lips is heavy, as she pulls the other piece of cloth from her face and scrunches it up, throwing it with more force than is necessary into the basin. When she stands up, it is obvious that she is trying hard not to pace. “And _Dag_. Sigurd has only just summoned me, so I have been doing all he has asked of me. Dag would rather I sit here on my _arse_ where I cannot murder our allies.”

Ah, so that is likely the source of the brawl down at the docks. Very few in the clan are apt to believe his accusations, but Randvi cannot help but feel that it can only escalate now that blood has been spilled between Dag and Eivor.

There is little Randvi can say. If she sides with Eivor, Dag will likely use it as further proof that Eivor seeks to take Sigurd’s place. Taking Dag’s side in the argument is neither here nor there, for his paranoia is irrational and Eivor would sooner exile herself than betray Sigurd. The whole argument is nonsensical and she can barely understand _why_ they’re determined to have an eternal pissing contest.

Randvi is pulled from her thoughts by the realisation that Eivor is watching her, and she straightens self-consciously. She cannot bear the weight of those icy blue eyes on her for too long, lest she drown herself in them.

“Come, you will better serve the rest of us if you take yourself to bed _before_ anyone else tries to punch you.”

“After seeing the state of Dag? They would be fools.” Randvi is not certain if Eivor’s confidence is mere bravado or not, but before she can reply Eivor simply nods. “But perhaps sleep in my own chambers will do me some good.”

The movement is instinctive on her part, one that speaks of an intimacy they do not actually share. It does not even occur to Randvi, until she has already stepped closer to Eivor and is halfway through unclasping her cloak clasp. The air becomes almost heavy as Randvi only realises her error when the warmth of Eivor surrounds her. They are too close, Eivor’s taller frame nearly pressing against her front, as a few wisps of Randvi’s hair tickle her face as the blonde exhales with far too much control.

Randvi forces herself to continue pulling the pin out, adamant that moving back now would be even _more_ awkward, as though she were not already _undressing_ the woman. The light from the braziers flickers off the bronze of the clasp, and Randvi focuses on it if only to take her mind away from the fact that Eivor’s face is tilted _down_ towards her, the burn of her gaze nearly making her fumble with the metal.

She’s not even sure why it makes her flustered, for Eivor had made clear months ago that her feelings were not strong enough to pursue Randvi. The whole business is done and gone, and Randvi had _thought_ she’d managed to push it all away, but the way she has to steady her fingers from trembling as she pulls the pin free only tells her she’s failed at that task.

But her steady self control nearly breaks when she dares to look up and meet Eivor’s eyes. If she inhales sharply, it is only because Eivor’s face is so close to her own, having not moved at all since Randvi came close. Her eyes are lidded, and Randvi sees too clearly when they flicker from her own down to her lips. It would be so easy to close the gap and, from the intensity of Eivor’s gaze, she would not be turned away this time. If she could lean across, sink into her warmth, she could finally _have_ her.

Even fresh from a brawl she is beautiful, half her hair down and wild with the rest in braids, and Randvi is a hopeless _fool_.

It takes every ounce of willpower in her body to feign a small smile as she reaches across and removes Eivor’s cloak, whilst trying to ignore how her mind imagines removing it slowly, stretching out the tension between them until perhaps Eivor loses her control and takes the fear of being burned again out of Randvi’s hands. How far would Eivor let her go before she either stopped her or kissed her? Randvi desperately wants to find out, but instead she pulls the cloak from Eivor’s shoulders in one quick movement and turns to throw it over the mannequin next to the bed.

The moment breaks in that instant, an awkward feeling settling over them, and when Randvi turns back she finds that Eivor has taken a step backwards. The look on her face is torn between confusion and guilt, and it makes Randvi feel worse.

“Get some sleep, Eivor.” Randvi can hear the softness in her own voice, hiding the wish she has to _get out_ of Eivor’s room before she does something ridiculous. Embarrassment is already sinking into her bones, and she does not think she has ever had such an urge to hurry away before.

And damn her, but Eivor’s confusion has melted away into a fond smile that is almost _wistful_ as Randvi tries to get out the doorway.

“Goodnight, Randvi.”

Randvi has never been more aware of her heart thudding in her chest than she is when Eivor says her name like that, low and slow like a sigh, and a part of her wants to turn around and throttle Eivor for doing this to her. _Surely_ she knows what she is doing.

Instead, Randvi only nods before she leaves, preferring her usual stoicism over attempting to untangle her tongue.

* * *

It is the early hours of the morning, the world still lit only by the stars and the flames of their torches, and Randvi has been standing in the doorway to the alliance room since her husband had first gone to bed.

The night has passed slowly, as Randvi’s arms and her legs ache terribly from the uncomfortable position, all her weight against the wooden frame that she leans on with her right shoulder. She keeps her arms folded, though her eyes wander around the room, sight dulled by a heavy drowsiness but unwilling to go to _bed_.

Judging by the shadow she sees repeatedly pacing back and forth, the one that comes from Eivor’s room, she is not the only one to be restless on the first night of Sigurd’s return after so long in Fulke’s grasp.

Randvi is all too aware that her refusal to go to bed will likely be interpreted the wrong way by Sigurd, and that pains her. She does not want him to think that she does not go to her bed because she is disgusted by what lies within it, does not want him to think that _she_ thinks less of him simply because he has lost his arm. She knows what thoughts like that can do to a man, what it can drive them to do. It doesn’t disgust her, not at all, and were she _in_ love with _him_ , she would gladly spend her night by his side.

But she isn’t in love with him, and she has slept alone for nearly every night of their marriage. Never mind that she would find it hard to fall asleep with another warm body in the bed, but Sigurd may expect certain affections that she cannot give, not any longer. Randvi cannot slide between the furs and give an affectionate kiss goodnight, cannot hold her husband as he needs to be held during this turmoil. It is unlikely he’d even _think_ of wanting to sleep with her, not whilst his mind is shredded to tatters, but the _possibility_ of it alone makes her shudder.

No, she cannot go to bed. Nothing about it feels right, stirs up something dark and sour in the pit of her stomach.

Part of it is anger, frustration that her comfort and happiness need to be sacrificed for his, a husband who had brought her into the folds of his world and then abandoned her, _twice,_ a man she had tried to love but who simply had not let her by way of his constant absence. And now that he has returned, she is expected to what, exactly? Remain loyal despite his lashing out, hold him together whilst his eyes search for betrayal in every room, keep her mouth shut whilst he rants and raves about his throne being taken from him by the very woman who _actually_ put in the work to build the village up, _as per his orders_?

And then there is the sad part, the half of her that says _yes_ , as a loyal friend she should do exactly that, and truthfully if friendship were all that is expected from her then she would happily oblige. She loves Sigurd deeply, just… not like _that_. Not as a wife loves her husband.

It is still dark when Eivor leaves her bedroom, and Randvi feels a bitter sting of pride when her presence gives Eivor the slightest of shocks. She is already dressed for the day, or has simply never changed into her nightclothes, and when she spots Randvi she beckons her over with a tilt of her head.

Her limbs feel like they are made of lead when she pushes herself off the doorway, only to take up the same position against Eivor’s when she reaches it.

“You have not gone to bed, Randvi?” Eivor’s brows are furrowed in frustration, her tone blunt despite her whispered words, though Randvi senses her annoyance is more directed to the man in Randvi’s bedroom.

For a moment Randvi thinks she can confess it all, the feeling of shame and disgust that threaten to overwhelm her at the thought of sharing her bed with her husband once again. She wants to tell Eivor every reason why she can’t do it, why she would rather be sleeping in the bed that she’s looking at, but she is reminded of the fact that Eivor already _knows_.

She opens her mouth to speak, feels a sudden painful ache begin to throb in her throat, and instead shakes her head quietly. “I…cannot.”

Eivor seems to understand immediately all the words that are left unsaid, and Randvi nearly falls apart at the way her gaze softens, how the frustrated curl to her lips is turned into a sad, small smile laced with understanding. With a quick look around the hall, she pulls Randvi into the room and pushes her gently towards her bed. She feels a wildly inappropriate tug in her stomach, but Eivor steps back the moment Randvi has sat down.

“Sleep here. I’ll stay out there and get Mouse to wake you before anyone can find out you’re in here.”

Randvi almost turns hysterical, because with all the weighted information in that one sentence, all she can focus on is the fact that Eivor has apparently named the huge white wolf _Mouse_.

“Mouse?” Naming the fox Dandelion Puff she could understand, if only because that was its previous name, but Mouse? Perhaps the irony appealed. Either way, Eivor looks at her as though she has fallen ill with a fever, as though the animal being referred to as _Mouse_ was quite obviously the only animal in the whole settlement capable of ripping out their throats in a heartbeat.

“The wolf.” As if she has read her mind, the wolf slowly pads over to Randvi and curls up on the ground beside her feet.

“Ah. Thank you, Eivor.”

Eivor only nods, though there is something intense and almost _angry_ in her gaze.

“Do not worry, Randvi. No one will know you are in here tonight.”

Randvi does not get a chance to reply before Eivor steps away, still in sight at one of the tables but turned away, in order to have a good vantage point on all entrances.

It says a lot about how the others view their relationship, she thinks, that Eivor has to make sure no one knows where she is spending the night. Even an innocent night in a different bed is sure to give rise to all sorts of rumours and speculations, no matter how much this is genuinely a case of one friend offering a sleeping place for another.

She dare not think how Sigurd would take it, already so convinced of Eivor’s betrayal. How would he react, knowing that his wife spent his first night back in another’s bed? It does not look good no matter which angle it is looked at, and they do not need to give him more reason to be mistrustful of Eivor.

Still, Randvi will take the opportunity to sleep whilst she can.

Eivor’s pillows smell so much of her that it almost aches to fall down into them. It is a comforting smell, the pinewood oil that she uses to make her hair slick for braiding, clove oil from her swords and that outdoorsy smell of clothes and hair that have been billowing in a strong wind, earthy and airy but beyond comforting. Randvi allows herself this one guilty pleasure, inhales deeply and tries not to obviously bury her face in them, but she will take the chance she is given.

It is easy to fall asleep, wholly trusting that Eivor will wake her before anyone else stirs in the longhouse. Her dreams are fleeting, nothing worth remembering, though Randvi does wake up briefly to see Eivor meditating on the floor next to the table. She does not call out to her, instead dozing back off.

Finally, as the village begins to awaken and the sun makes an appearance on the horizon, Randvi distantly hears a low whistle in her dreams and is promptly brought out of her doze by the wolf pressing her cold, wet nose into her neck and huffing out a puff of air before she retreats.

“ _Ugh_.” As much as she’d rather stay in the warmth of the furs, Randvi wastes no time in actually getting up out of the bed, and she finds Eivor still at the table nursing a tankard of warmed cider. There’s one opposite her, ready for Randvi, and she is grateful for it when she takes the seat.

It is almost utterly silent around them, the only sounds coming from the village rather than inside the longhouse. She can hear Gunnar warming up his forge down the hill, and there is a whiff in the air of fresh bread as Tarben begins his day’s work down near the docks. Other than that, however, it is still eerily quiet. Randvi casts her eyes towards the alliance chamber, and sees Eivor shake her head out of the corner of her eye.

“He has not stirred, yet. Whatever Valka gave him is working.” Her voice is quiet, her head bent down towards her drink.

“I see.”

Truthfully, she is not sure what to say. It takes a moment for Randvi to notice the packed bags on the bench next to Eivor, and she beckons to them with her free hand.

“You are heading out?” Randvi hopes that there is no disappointment in her voice: it feels almost pathetic to admit it, but she does not wish to be left on her own to help Sigurd.

“I head for Snotinghamscire. I know we discussed it briefly before we launched the attack to rescue Sigurd, but I feel my presence here is going to hinder his recovery rather than help it. It is best that I depart, and on my own.”

Of course, Randvi is not surprised at all to hear it. Distance between the adopted siblings is likely needed for now, and Eivor’s summons to Snotinghamscire were urgent enough without the time taken to get Sigurd back. And really, what was she expecting to happen? That Eivor would remain in the longhouse and Randvi would get her sleep in the other woman’s bed whilst hiding from her own?

Before she can speak, Eivor’s hands reach out to take her free one, enveloping it in a strong grip.

“You will be fine. But Randvi, you must return to your own bed, for your own health if not for his. You cannot sleep out here.”

It is nothing Randvi has not already told herself over the last eight hours, but at least when it comes from Eivor it reinforces it, makes it a truth that she knows she must follow.

“I know. I’ve simply slept alone for so long that I’m no longer comfortable sharing that space. I have never lied to him, and yet I must pretend that all is right in our marriage.” No need to mention any other reasons, though Eivor likely knows them all anyway.

Before Eivor can respond she is interrupted by the wolf returning to the longhouse, and she wastes no time in grabbing her knapsack and weapons from the bench.

“You will be fine, Randvi. We must do our best for him, but do not push yourself.” Randvi keeps her eyes on Eivor as the other woman stands, clasping Randvi’s wrist in her hand and squeezing gently before she turns to leave. “I’ll update you on Snotinghamscire if I can.”

And then she goes, as Randvi is left with the wolf who could tear her throat out in seconds, but who instead sits there and looks between Randvi and the leftover chicken on the table, as if she requires payment for her lookout services.

It is ridiculous, but Randvi still sneaks her a piece before Gunnar makes his usual loud entrance to the hall.

* * *

“Do you ever wonder what might have happened if we had not been separated by the North Sea so early in our lives? The raids we would have had, the glory! I even think of what we might have been to each other.”

The question makes Eivor still so completely that she is certain for a moment that her bones have frozen in place in this unusually cool corner of England. It is a question she has been anticipating, sitting as they are in a secluded shelter reminiscing about the good old days. For all his intimidating figure and bravado, Vili wears his heart on his sleeve when it comes to Eivor, and she knows the signs of a man trying hard to impress her.

She does not need to look right to see the intensity of Vili’s gaze on her, for she can feel the heat of it burning into her skin. She does not need to see the way his head is inclined towards her, for she knows he is there, knows how easy it would be to lean into his heat and warmth and just be done it, take pleasure and satisfaction in the arms of a man who has given her it before.

Has she wondered about what they could have been? Of course she has, she would have been an idiot not to. The first man she had slept with, the only noble her age and sharing her rank: had they not been separated, she would have faced the same fate as Randvi and been given to his clan in a political marriage.

Only, she would likely not have been as miserable as Randvi is. Oh, she had been heartbroken when she and Vili had said their last goodbye, as much as she had hidden it, fancying herself in love with him as all in their teenage years do. They had fun together, respected one another, and had she joined his clan she would have been no wife left behind in the longhouse. A part of her had wanted it even, though she had never voiced it aloud.

A good thing, too: she had known the moment she truly got to know Randvi that all others had been fleeting affections. Nothing had been as disappointing as that first day, knowing Randvi was pledged to her brother, nothing had been as painful as the ache in her chest that first spring, when she returned and fell _hard_ for Sigurd’s wife and faced the realisation that it was never to be.

Perhaps that love could have grown for Vili, had they not been separated, had she not ever laid eyes on Randvi until after a joining with Vili.

Perhaps they could have been more, were she not chained to another.

Acutely aware of her silence, Eivor gently shakes her head.

“No, Vili. I do not think of the past, only live in the present.”

* * *

Before returning to Ravensthorpe, Eivor receives a summons to Eurvicscire by Halfdan Ragnarrson himself, and with a weary heart she takes her men and her boat and follows where she is called.

Months have passed since she travelled this way en route to Jorvik, and the transformation of the landscape as spring settles in makes the whole place feel like a different world. The journey through the moors is cold and wet, miles and miles of valleys and hills that are eerie with the wind whistling in a way Eivor has never heard before. Those very hills turn a vibrant green and purple the further north they go, so unlike the south with its flatter landscape. Eivor could spend hours admiring the sights of this wilder north that has emerged from the snow with such a burst of colour and life. It reminds her of Norway, hilly fields of heather and yellow flowers, in a way that England’s south never does.

But duty calls, and in Halfdan Ragnarsson she finds a paranoia even worse than Sigurd’s.

* * *

When Eivor finally returns to the settlement after her diversion to Eurvicscire, Randvi is surprised to find that her arrival brings with it a _giant_ of a man who watches Eivor with a look that she imagines is frequently plastered across her own face. Her heart hammers in her chest when he stays by Eivor’s side right up until Eivor crosses into the alliance room, and Randvi cannot help but watch with furrowed brows when Eivor casually informs her that they have a new member in their clan.

“I remember the young man. He will make a fine addition to your crew.” Ah, but there it is again, the hot sear of jealousy that curls in her stomach, puts pinpricks on her carefully guarded heart. It has been lurking beneath the surface since Eivor first came back from Snotinghamscire with the painfully attractive man who seemingly wears half a bear as his cloak and who towers over even Eivor.

Not many people can claim to be able to do that, and she knows that the two have had a previous history together. Inviting him to the clan almost seems like a declaration in Randvi’s jealous mind. She wonders, unkindly, if they had fucked in that cold corner of England, if the laughter Eivor shares with Vili at the evening's feast speaks of something more than just a rekindled friendship. Randvi tries to avoid the thought, to push the images in her head away, tries not to think of armour shed and skin on skin, of heavy breaths and skin flushed pink with sweat despite the snow.

Randi forces the thought out of her mind with such force that she almost brings up her meal, a sickness settling into her stomach and plaguing her thoughts. It is nothing more than anxiety and jealousy, this she knows, but it does not make it easier to swallow. They plague her throughout the night and well into the next morning, turning her mood sour, and Randvi is not pulled from her thoughts until the loud voices of Gudrun and Holger enter the hall.

Eivor takes the judgement, as Sigurd has shown little interest in his duties over the few weeks he has been back in the settlement, and Eivor has done this enough times now that few will consider it unusual. Randvi encourages her to do so, and is stunned beyond belief when Sigurd comes storming out of their chambers to shout at his sister.

“You were not here, brother. I did not wish to bother you.” Eivor defending herself against Sigurd’s wrath makes something angry stir in Randvi’s chest. She has spent years stoically standing firm on Sigurd’s side because he is her husband and she does _love_ him, but this?

“A sallow excuse for such a bold defiance. Now step aside.” Randvi has to bite down hard on the inner skin of her cheeks to keep her mouth shut, appalled at the audacity of her husband. A man who has spent large chunks of the last few years pissing off gallivanting around the world and then the country, and now he cares about judging his people? Perhaps it would be convincing, if he at least knew the names of all who had joined them since Ravensthorpe began to expand.

Randvi is not wholly paying attention to Sigurd’s judgement, only registering the ultimate payment simply because it is an outrageous amount, but her mood is still foul when Gudrun and Holger argue back with her husband. Eivor watches with eyes like cold steel, a disappointed twist to her lips as she keeps her gaze away from Sigurd and on the two before them.

“Eivor…please. Does this not seem unfair?”

If there had been anything Holger could say to get his punishment reduced, that absolutely was _not_ it. Even Randvi flinches, as the whole room descends into an uncomfortable silence. Eivor has stilled completely, not even her chest moves as she breathes shallowly into the quiet, all eyes on her _waiting_ for her response. Randvi feels the significance of that question, sees immediately how Sigurd will interpret it, perhaps rightly as the insubordination that it is, the undermining of his judgement and the preferential deferring to his sister.

Sigurd cannot see Eivor’s face from where he sits but, to Randvi and Gudrun and Holger, she looks rather like she is chewing shards of glass, and would _prefer_ to do so instead of answer that question.

“Sigurd is your Jarl. Whether or not you agree with his decision, you must obey him.” They may be the most carefully controlled words to ever leave Eivor’s mouth, and Randvi can tell from the stiffness of her jaw that she is likely forcing them out through clenched teeth, but Sigurd is too surprised by the submission to notice.

“See to it that my decision is carried out exactly as I ordered.” It is a cruel touch, to make Eivor carry out that which she does not agree with, but Eivor gets no time to respond before he has turned and left them without so much as a glance. Randvi is shocked, at both the harshness of the sentence and the little care Sigurd seems to have for the four of them, the two victims of his ire and the two witnesses to it.

She ignores the voice in her mind that asks who were really the witnesses here in favour of watching Eivor, who has yet to move from next to the throne. That cold fury is still there on her face as her gaze follows a sobbing Holger, and when she finally moves it is so fast that Randvi takes a step back in surprise.

It takes ten seconds for Eivor to cross the hall, slip into her room, and then leave again. She casts a glance towards Randvi and the doorway to the alliance room, checking that only Randvi remains to watch her, a large pouch dangling from her fingers.

A single sharp whistle from her lips has the wolf bounding inside the longhouse from where she has been eyeing up the chickens, her body large and unyielding as she runs between Holger and Gunner and knocks the former flat on his back when she bumps into his legs. It is deliberate, judging by the way the wolf sits quietly by the table as Eivor heads over, an apology on her lips.

“I am sorry, Holger. She still needs training to get the wildness out of her.” Anyone who has spent more than ten minutes with Mouse knows that the sentence is an utter lie. The wolf might be wild, but she is more obedient with Eivor than any dog Randvi has met, and has as much an understanding of Eivor’s wishes as Synin. If she collided with Holger hard enough to knock him over, it is only because Eivor wished it so.

Holger knows this, and looks rightly confused as Eivor reaches out a hand to help him up. She pats him on the side once when he is upright, checking for any injuries. It is a friendly gesture, mostly hidden by the fall of Eivor’s cloak, and Randvi only sees the money switching hands because she is looking for it. Eivor steps away, apologetic smile on her lips, but the pouch of silver is gone and Holger’s pocket is miraculously more weighed down than it was when he fell. His expression nearly gives it all away, one of awe and gratefulness, and Randvi sees the almost imperceptible shake of Eivor’s head.

The anger in Randvi's chest rises again, and she turns to return to her chambers. She barely turns the corner to look at her bed before she begins to speak.

“That was unworthy of you, Sigurd.”

“My judgement was just.”

But Randvi thinks of Eivor’s kindness, and disagrees.

“You had no reason to disparage Holger in such a way, where all the clan could hear. You _know_ your ruling was unfair.” She wonders at this pettiness, his unwillingness to compromise. His judgement is simply a statement, a hard laying down of the truth that _he_ has the final say, and Holger’s only true crime was being the first to be brought before their Jarl’s newfound temper.

“Of course you side with my sister, my own wife. Eivor covets my position, my clan, and she has turned you over to her side as well. The lines between us have become so blurred, I’m not surprised you seem to have forgotten which one you married.”

 _I am reminded every day which one I married_ , she nearly voices, _the wrong one_.

His statement is so ludicrous that Randvi has the urge to smack him around the head, shake some sense into him before he harms more than just Holger’s pockets. Sigurd has never been cruel, but too many incidents like this will give rise to discontent, and few Norsemen will have patience for a harsh Jarl who has spent the last several years absent from his clan. Halfdan Ragnarsson barely held onto his own clan with luck and Eivor’s aid, something that will not help Sigurd if he sends his sister away.

Randvi can rail against him, rebuke him for his harshness or shout that he needs to change, but that will not help him. Only time back with the clan will heal him, rest and good food and sleep that is not plagued with nightmares. It takes more willpower than it should to breathe in deeply and not rise to his bait.

“You are unwell, Sigurd, but you need to heal for yourself and the good of the clan. This anger and distress is unlike you.”

Randvi does not give him chance to respond, though if the distant look on his face is anything to go by then he likely is no longer listening to her. She leaves him to his thoughts, instead deciding to check on Eivor if the woman has not already fled the settlement in frustration.

She finds her hurriedly packing her knapsack with supplies, her large weapons already strapped to her back.

There is a moment of irrational panic that roots Randvi to the spot, a fear that Eivor will simply leave and go where her skills and her loyalty will be appreciated. Half of the clan leaders in England would marry her for her combat skills and diplomacy alone, and the woman has no idea of it. Oswald had made enquires on behalf of his brother-in-law to seek an alliance, and Eivor had completely missed the significance of Ubba Ragnarsson himself delivering a simple message of thanks and _friendship_. Even Soma Jarlskona has hinted at wanting a new advisor to fill the place of the two she has lost, and Eivor is not someone that can be kept at arm’s length, especially given the unspoken attraction the two of them share.

And more than that, nearly all the clans in England would fight merely to have her, the one-woman army securing alliances for the Raven Clan and making them arguably one of the most secure clans in England. All those tokens of friendship Eivor has received are for the good of her clan, but Randvi knows that most of those promises are to _Eivor_.

If she decides to leave them, leave _Randvi_ , then there is nothing anyone can do.

“Eivor?” She keeps her voice level, no hint of the fear in it, and Eivor startles, a rare sight that shows how deep in thought she truly is.

“I am making the journey to Vinland.” Her words are sharp, but there is a shine in her eyes that speaks of angry tears she will refuse to let fall, her loyalty to Sigurd absolute but stretched incredibly thin by this latest show.

Neither speak, Randvi surprised by the statement and Eivor struggling to think of something to say.

“I have never seen him like this. We must do our best to help him heal, and be there for him as he needs us. But I-“ Eivor cuts herself off, jaw tense as she swallows thickly. “I do not think he will benefit by my being here, and I dare not leave to make more alliances lest it damage him further on my return. It is time I make a journey that impacts none but myself.”

For Gorm Kjotvesson is still out there, and Eivor still has a fight to finish. Randvi cannot find fault in her logic, but it is a journey she wishes Eivor did not have to take. Few have ever reached Vinland, and even less have survived the journey back. It will be Eivor’s longest time away from the clan, and the chances of her safe return are terrifyingly slim.

Randvi says nothing, heading out of the room towards her own chambers in search of a knapsack she knows is already packed, hidden near the alliance table and out of view of her husband. It is the work of a moment to grab it and return to Eivor, who stares at her with a deflated air to her shoulders.

Handing the pack over, Randvi only offers what she hopes is an assertive smile, rather than a grimace.

“Here. You cannot enter Gorm’s territory in anything other than a thrall’s clothing. To go as you are would raise suspicion, for all but a few are loyal to him.”

Eivor does not look through the pack, trusting the contents are what Randvi implies they are. She does not even question why Randvi has them at the ready. Hidden between the rolled up clothes, however, is a single slim dagger most unlike the types that Eivor has been known to use, capable of being slipped up the sleeve in a subtler way than Eivor’s hidden blade. Not wanting her daughter to be sold off to the strongest clan like cattle, Randvi’s mother had gifted her the dagger in case her husband turned out not to be the honourable warrior he had been painted as.

Thankfully, she’d never even thought to use it, but Eivor cannot wander around Vinland with her two giant axes strapped to her back lest she wants an arrow to be buried in her spine.

“Good thinking, Randvi.” Eivor’s smile is honest, and Randvi wants to lean close and kiss her, take the opportunity in case she never sees that soft expression again.

“Only taking care of our prized drengr.” Instead Randvi only returns the smile, conscious of any eyes and ears in the longhouse. It is painful to turn away, to hear Eivor pulling the buckles shut on her knapsack in preparation of leaving, but she does not look back. The wish to memorise every detail on Eivor’s face nearly overwhelms her, but she forces the thought down. Eivor will return; if anyone can make the journey and survive living in the territory of a man who will happily skin them alive, it’s Eivor. It is not a permanent goodbye.

It is _not_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the number of chapters to 3, as this went from an expected 8000 word total to a monstrous 13,000 so far and counting, though I've nearly finished the final chapter so hopefully it won't be long before I publish that.
> 
> The little random part I put in about Eivor seeing Eurvicscire in spring is there because my god, as a lass from Yorkshire, Ubisoft did us and the Peak District a dirty by covering the landscape with snow and making it desolate. A town on the River Tees has the world's second ever near-complete viking helmet but when you get there on the map you can see.... snow. Lots of snow. That hurt, I won't lie! 
> 
> Final note: I missed out the whole part between Sigurd+Oxenefordscire and rescuing him, if only because I didn't feel I could bring anything to those scenes!


End file.
